


Devour the Moon Whole (the light reflects off your teeth now)

by screamingarrows



Series: Howls of a Pack [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Gen, So much angst, illya's life is so sad, very very brief mentionings of attempted self harm- like blink and you miss it mentionings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:33:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6591271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mama, they have offered me a job.”</p><p>Fear bleeds all the anger from her face. Her eyes widen as tears spill over and she presses her hand to her mouth. She looks behind her as she stands and grabs him to her. His chest tightens but he smiles when he pulls away.</p><p>“No, this is good. They will take care of you; it will fix everything.”</p><p>A sob is muffled behind her hand and she curls, holding him tight against her again. “You foolish boy,” she mutters and his breath hitches in his throat.<br/>---<br/>In which Illya is taken as punishment for his father's crimes and is enlisted to be a part of a program to make the best soldiers the world has ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devour the Moon Whole (the light reflects off your teeth now)

**Author's Note:**

> I based a lot of this au's werewolves on the werewolves in Teen Wolf. The differences being all wolves, regardless of their killing history, have gold eyes. Only Alpha wolves have red eyes. Human's can be Alpha's as well, and they are no less capable in controlling betas than Alpha wolves. It's not addressed in this fic, but Alpha humans' eyes have the ability to reflect light. 
> 
> Okay, I really hope you enjoy this!

_1942 (age 11)_

 

They come for him at night.

Illya’s been in bed for hours, not quite asleep nor awake, when the sound of three heavy knocks sets his body alight. He jumps, his heart pounding and nerves tingling, and he hides his head in his blanket, praying softly that this is a nightmare.

The light to the hall, and then his bedroom, filters through the blanket and he pulls it down enough to see his mother in the doorway. She’s pulling a thin robe tight around her small frame and her eyes are wide and panicked as she looks behind her.

“Illya, come,” she orders breathlessly before moving down the hall. His entire body is quivering. He remembers, so vividly, the night the KGB came for his father; the way their door splintered like a crack of thunder as a team of agents swarm into their home, the way his parents screamed and fought, the busted lip his mother sported and the hand belonging to an agent, fisted at his side.

His legs are jelly as he trails after her. He wants to hide, to crawl back in his bed and stay there forever.

There’s more banging and his mother opens the door just as Illya rounds the corner into their living room and he freezes, unable to move when he sees the armed agents standing on their doorstep, different than when they came for his father, but still so similar.

He expects them to grab his mother, to take her as quickly and violently as his father, but instead they look past her and focus with laser intensity on him.

They’re impatient and force the door open farther, pushing his mother back against the wall. Fear and anger rival in him, making him uncomfortably cold and hot. His throat closes as they come towards him and his eyes burn as tears well and spill over onto his cheeks.

His mother is screaming, begging, as they grab him with an iron grip on each arm and jerk him out of the house. He turns his head to look over his shoulder as they pass his mother, still detained against the wall. He calls out for her, even knowing she can do nothing. He can’t stop calling out for her, and he’s slapped hard enough his jaw clicks shut when he tries again.

They shove him into the back of their car, sandwiching him between them. His hands are shaking and he wants to beg, wants to promise he’s loyal to the State, but the words get caught in his throat. His terror is so grate he can’t even cry. The agents are talking, he knows they are, he can see their mouth moving, but his heart is pounding so hard in his ears he can’t hear anything over it.

They drive for hours; the sun is just starting to rise when they drive up to a tall fence lined with barbed wire. The gates open to their arrival and his breath comes light and fast in his chest. He wonders if his father was this scared, or if he was prepared. Illya thinks of his father’s begging and of the way he fought; he hadn’t seemed prepared.

The car slows as it approaches a grey-stoned building and Illya’s body trembles; he fists his shaking hands and shoves them hard into his thighs in a hopeless attempt at control.

“Get out. Let’s go.” His arm is jerked and he stumbles out of the car. They lead him into the building; it’s plain, the grey of the walls match the grey of the sky. Illya doesn’t risk looking around. He follows the agents obediently, keeping his eyes firmly on the back of the man in front while trying to ignore the one behind. They lead him down countless hallways before stopping at an office door. The leading man knocks, much more gently than at his home, and once they’re welcomed they open the door and guide him in. He stands shakily between them and isn’t sure if he’s relieved or terrified when the agents are dismissed.

The sound of the office door shutting makes him jump and the man behind the desk smiles.

“Little Kuryakin,” he says, leaning back. “Or rather, not-so-little. Tall for your age, no? Before long you’ll be taller than your father.”

Illya tries to make himself taller, straightening his back and shoulders. Tears burn his eyes and he clasps his hands behind his back for lack of better to do.

“Yes, sir.”

His voice is soft and cracks. The man watches him with a calculating look before huffing a laugh.

“Do not be so afraid. I have you here to ask some questions, that won’t be so terrible will it?”

Illya can’t speak around the knot in his throat and he shakes his head. The man’s eye twitches when he smiles and he gestures to the chair by his desk. Illya sits down gratefully, unsure if his legs were going to hold him up much longer.

The man continues to stare at him and Illya tries not to fidget. His palms are sweaty and he presses them on his pajama pants. He wishes they gave him time to change. He’d make a better impression dressed, he’s sure of it.

“Now, Mr. Kuryakin,” the man says. Illya flinches; after the prolonged silence the sudden voice was startling. “As I’m sure you’re aware, your father worked for us here. He did us all a lot of harm. Understand?”

Illya thinks of the watch, still on his bedside table, hastily thrust into his hands with a cry of, _“It belongs to my boy! It’s his!”_ He thinks of the way his father would spin his mother around the living room when her favorite song came over the radio. He remembers a man who always smiled when he came home and always brought bread for Sunday’s. His father may not have done good things, but he was a good man. Illya refuses to answer but the man continues without one.

“But, more importantly, his betrayal hurt you. Hurt your beautiful mother.” The man almost looks genuinely upset and he leans forward with a pinched look in his eyes. This, Illya can’t argue. Since his father’s arrest they have been outcasts. They go hungry more often than not and their once fine clothes are now old hand-me-down’s from neighbors who were throwing them out. “I think you can fix it, though.”

Illya’s eyes flicker up from the spot on the desk they’d been rooted to and the man smiles at the action.

“I am running a program. A program designed to make men into the best soldiers the world has ever known, and I think we could benefit from having you. What do you say?” His tone is soft, encouraging, but his eyes are eagle sharp and Illya hesitates.

“Sir,” he starts, slowly.

“ _Illya_ ,” his name comes out of the man’s mouth like a dagger and he jerks. The man’s face is stern for a flashing moment before it smooths back into the pleasant smile from before. “Illya, this is a good opportunity for you. Do not pass so quickly. Think of your mother, of how proud you’d make her, serving for your country. Fixing your father’s mistake. You will be a man.”

Illya looks down to his lap and realizes he’s bouncing his leg. He stills and the world seems to hum, as if making up for the sudden stillness of his anxiety.

“Okay,” Illya says softly.

“Okay?”

“I would… be honored to be in your program, sir.”

For the first time since meeting him, the man’s dead eyes shine bright with emotion.

“Excellent. You have made a wise choice, Illya.”

\-----

He’s taken back home at nightfall.

They keep him in a windowless room with a stone faced man standing by the door. It’s only for the day, but time feels longer in this building, stretches like it shouldn’t exist. As he’s led out, he looks up; the stars are shining bright and the moon looks almost full. He’s still not sure they aren’t going to kill him, but he thinks with the sky looking so beautiful it might not be so bad.

They drive for a long time in silence with only the fainting grumblings of his stomach to break the monotony of the car’s engine.

It’s dark when they reach his home, and his heart thuds when he sees it’s still standing. The front window is open, the curtains pulled to the side and a single candle is lit on the sill; he shifts and angles towards the door, waiting to be let out.

They don’t touch him when the car stops but he’s grabbed firmly on the shoulder when he starts for the house without them. He keeps pace with them despite the urge to run inside and waits, sandwiched between them when they stop at the door. He starts to reach for the doorknob, having no doubts his mother would have left the door unlocked, but one of the agents’ leans forward and pounds on the door with more force than necessary. Illya jumps and frowns at the door, not daring to look anywhere than straight ahead. He knows his mother will be frightened and it would have been easier to just let himself in.

The door swings open seconds later and tears blur his vision at the sight of her. Her eyes are swollen and puffy from crying and she’s in the same nightgown as last night; he has little faith she’s changed since he was taken.

It had taken her weeks to come back after his father’s arrest.

He rushes forward without thinking and hugs her to him. Her arms are impossibly tight around him and he clings to her. She’s whispering into his hair, repeating his name and muffled prayer over and over. The agents let them hug before loudly shifting closer, their shoes scrapping on the concrete of the porch steps. Illya pulls back and his mother spins him, putting herself between him and the agents in one fluid motion.

“Mama,” he says softly, hands fisted in the back of her nightgown.

“Hush,” she responds immediately and her face is more serious than he’s ever seen it.

“Mama, please,” he tries again, certain that her attitude will not be tolerated for long. They’ve given him until sunrise and he doesn’t want them to change their mind.

“Illya?” she asks when he pulls away. He grabs her hand and tugs her, pulling her further into the house. He eyes the agents around her and keeps them in view until he can pull her into the living room, out of sight.

He guides her to a chair and stands in front of her, keeping a wary eye on the doorway.  “Mama, they have offered me a job.”

Fear bleeds all the anger from her face. Her eyes widen as tears spill over and she presses her hand to her mouth. She looks behind her as she stands and grabs him to her. His chest tightens but he smiles when he pulls away.

“No, this is good. They will take care of you; it will fix everything.”

A sob is muffled behind her hand and she curls, holding him tight against her again. “You foolish boy,” she mutters and his breath hitches in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers around the lump in his throat. She kisses his temple, pats his hair.

“No, no, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect you and now–“ Her voice breaks and her grip loosens. Illya pulls away to wipe at the tears on her face.

Illya thinks about the men who have come visit them since his father’s imprisonment and he thinks that he has only heard his mother cry like this after they leave.

“You have,” he swears, holding her face in his hands in a mockery of the way his father used to to cheer her up. “Mama, you have been the best. And now I am grown enough to help you.”

More tears well in her eyes but she nods, presses her lips together into a forced smile and raises her own hands to cup his face. She hugs him again; it’s softer this time and shorter, her arms only tightening around him for a moment before releasing him and resting her hands on either side of his face. She smiles sadly and he doesn’t know what to say to make the sadness go away and for her to realize that this is a good thing. She sighs and lets him go, only to grab his hand and lead him away.

Together they go to the kitchen and she prepares him breakfast. Suddenly his appetite is gone, but he knows better than to waste food. He eats in silence while his mother watches him closely, almost like she’s studying him. When he’s finished she follows him to his bedroom where he starts packing a small bag. She doesn’t speak, just watches like a sad ghost standing in the doorway and the lump gets bigger in his throat. His eyes rest on his father’s watch and he holds it in his hands before strapping it around his wrist. It’s loose, even on it’s tightest hole, and it spins around his wrist as he moves his hand.

They sit together on his bed with her arm wrapped around him and petting at his hair until the sky lightens to a grey. His fingers tighten on her gown, but he loosens them and stands, a small forced on his face. She stands with him, keeping her eyes on the horizon.

“I have to go now,” he says softly. “I will- I will see you soon.” The promise is not his to make, but if he is good enough perhaps they will let him come home sometimes. Her eyes are sad but she nods.

“Soon,” she agrees and hugs him tight. “I love you, Illya.” She kisses him on the forehead and pulls back.

He doesn’t want to start walking, but he wants the agents storming through his house even less.

The agents are still waiting by the door. They look bored, leaned up against the wall beside their door like pseudo-guardians. They look up at his approach and he nods nervously at them. One agent starts towards the car, expecting him to follow wordlessly, and the second agent straightens but waits for Illya to join in line.

Illya starts walking and only hesitates once he’s at the car. He looks over his shoulder at his mother and his heart immediately jumps to his throat when he sees her coming towards them, tying a robe around herself.

“Please,” she says, voice loud in the pre-dawn light. “He’s just a boy.”

“Mrs. Kuryakin,” the agent behind Illya starts and her face hardens; her eyes narrow in resolve and for the first time Illya realizes how strong his mother is.

“He’s just a boy.” Her voice is stone and he wants to beg her not to say anymore, not to fight this. He remembers the way her lip swelled and bled all over her mouth when she was hit when his father was taken; he doesn’t want that to happen again.

“You need to go back inside.” The agent leading says, turning. His voice doesn’t have the gentleness in his voice as the agent behind him and Illya’s heart starts racing, but he’s frozen.

“He’s just a boy! You cannot blame him for the mistakes of his father!”

The first agent acts fast. Illya doesn’t even see him move, but he has his mother by her hair and is snarling in her face before Illya can blink.

“Go. Inside.”

He tosses her to the ground and she looks up from on her knees. Her eyes look past the agent who hurled her to the ground, past Illya himself, and find the agent standing behind him.

“He’s a child. Don’t do this.” Her voice cracks and breaks, softening into a pleading whisper. Illya can see the agent look away and he’s shoved, softly, in the back. Illya hesitates and looks towards his sobbing mother, but the first agent turns to him with eyes dark in anger.

“Get in the car,” he growls and Illya hurriedly climbs in.

He looks out the window and meets eyes with his mother. He doesn’t break contact as they reverse down the drive and he still stares after her until she’s out of view as they go down the road.

The image of her, crumbled and sobbing, is burned into memory and her please echo in his head the whole trip.

\-----

“Do you know what today is?” the man in charge asks as he strolls into the tiny space Illya now calls his room. After nearly six months of training, it’s instinct to fall into attention in the presence of the man and he hurriedly rises, fisting his hands at his side.

“No, sir.”

The man smiles and Illya pulls his shoulders back straighter.

“Today is your graduation.”

“Sir?”

“You have excelled in your training. Your instructors agree you’re ready to move up.” The praise warms Illya’s chest and he nods, fighting to keep the smile off his face. He can feel the man’s eyes on him before he says, “Smile, Kuryakin. We’re very proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Illya says, looking down and away to allow a small smile to pull at his lips.

“Tonight we’ll have a ceremony. Agent Malikov will escort you.”

Illya nods, face relaxed into neutral seriousness. He’s familiar with Agent Malikov; the man is not the kindest, but he’s not cruel and despite himself Illya feels glad to prove his worth in front of him.

Agent Malikov doesn’t come for him until well after lights out. They leave alone in silence. He takes Illya outside the compound into the thick woods that surround the camp. Agent Malikov walks tensely with his finger hovering over his trigger and scoping the trail continuously. It puts Illya on edge and his heart starts thumping in his throat. Agent Malikov doesn’t stop and Illya doesn’t question his hyper vigilance. The moon is full above them and the stars are shining bright against the backdrop of space; it calms him.

He’s never feared the night, not like the world says he should. Even when the monster’s kids whispered about, the very one’s parents dismissed as myths, were proved true he never hesitated to go out once the sun fell. He’d spend hours staring out his bedroom window at night and wish he could be as safely cloaked by the night as other animals were.

Starting at the compound, Illya took a different solace in seeing the moon and stars. They were the same ones he watched from his bedroom at home, they’re the same ones his mother sees. It settles the aches and pains of living at the training camp and soothes the homesickness that still grips him when he’s alone. He feels safe under the white light and he chooses to keep his eyes focused up than on the twitchy form of Agent Malikov.

They walk long past the point of discomfort before they arrive at a small building made out of the same grey cement as the camp buildings. The hairs on the back of his neck raise and he looks around the yard as they walk towards the building; he eyes the shadows where the woods suddenly end and the manicured yard begins, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.

He quickens his pace, keeping one step behind Agent Malikov as they approach a metal door that nearly blends in with the wall, only visible by the reflective glint in the light of the moon. Agent Malikov pauses at the door and looks over his shoulder, acknowledging Illya’s presence for the first time since leaving the camp. He sighs, his eyes roaming over Illya, dressed in his nicest slacks and his regulated shirt.

“Inside, Kuryakin.”

The order is short, but for the first time it’s not laced with annoyance. Illya nods and wipes his sweaty palms against his pants before stepping around Agent Malikov to push the door open.

The hallway inside is unnaturally bright. Illya squints against it as he walks uneasily. There’s a clatter down the hall and he follows the noise, his fingers twitching nervously at his side. He fists them and closes his eyes; taking a shaky breath, he tries to center himself before uncurling his hand and pushing the only door in the hallway open.

The room is dark, no light at all except for from the hallway and that’s gone the moment someone rams into him, knocking him to the ground and slamming the door shut in the process. Illya scrambles back and raises his arms as he struggles to his feet.

Knives scratch grooves into his chest and he swings a blind punch as he jerks away, a shout of pain echoing in the room. His attacker keeps coming, pushing him back until he trips and crumbles to the floor. The body is heavy atop him and he tries to shove them off, but it’s no use.

The attacker leans forward; Illya can smell the rank breath as it warms his neck and he winces, wiggling in attempt to escape. He pushes on the attacker’s chest and they growl, low and threatening and vibrating against Illya’s palms. He freezes, a warning from when he was a child whispers faintly in the back of his head.

His attacker moves closer, pressing their face against his neck. Illya can feel the roughness of scruff against his chin and they inhale, deep and loud enough for Illya to hear over his own panting breaths.

There’s a moment when his attacker leans back and Illya thinks he’s about to get up, but the weight is shifted to rest on Illya’s hips and he flinches when he feels a hand wrap around his wrist. His arm is yanked up until it’s perpendicular to his body and he can feel them sniff up and down his arm.

If he had any question about what’s in the room with him at that moment, it’s wiped away when the attacker bites into his forearm, sharp wolf canines piercing the skin with ease. Illya screams through clenched teeth and thrashes, trying to pull away, but the werewolf tightens his hold with a low rumbling until Illya freezes again.

The werewolf tightens his jaw causing a whimper to escape form Illya and then his arms are released. He pulls them to his chest and cups a hand around the bite. Blood slicks the skin and his fingers tighten around the wound unconsciously. He wiggles, trying to inch his hips out from under the werewolf, but at the slightest movement the werewolf pushes down hard on his chest, aggravating the scratches there.

Illya doesn’t try to move again and they sit there for the rest of the night.

\-----

As the moon sets and the sun rises, the man on top of Illya wavers, his strength waning and his eyes drooping. His arms can’t hold him up anymore and he slowly slouches until he’s all but curled against Illya’s side. Illya’s heart is loud in his ears and he strains his eyes to see in the dark, too scared to move. He counts the seconds until the door slams open; bright light illuminates the room and he closes his eyes against it. Scrambling to get up and away, he crawls blindly for the door and only opens his eyes once he touches the wall.

The body on the floor behind him stirs and Illya turns in time to see him open one eye before huffing and closing it again. Illya stares in disbelief when he sees who his attacker was. He looks completely ordinary; Illya would no sooner have thought this man was a werewolf than he would Agent Malikov.

At the thought of the man, Illya looks to the doorway where Agent Malikov is standing tensely with is gun in his hand. Illya has little doubt he ever sat it down and he moves towards him, freezing when Agent Malikov’s finger shifted to rest over the trigger.

“Sir?” he asks. Agent Malikov looks him over before relaxing and nods.

“Let’s go,” he says simply and gestures for Illya to go out ahead of him.

Illya walks uncertainly through the bunker and into the woods, acutely aware that there’s a gun pointed at his back. Agent Malikov gives clear directional orders, but stays firmly behind Illya. Illya can hear his finger shifting over the trigger and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This could all too easily become an execution.

He moves slowly through woods; he’s cautious and makes sure to have his movements be predictable and steady.

He’s not shot, but his legs are shaky and he’s exhausted when they reach the camp; his entire body feels too weak. Before entering the building, Agent Malikov grabs his shoulder and spins him, pulling the tattered material of his shirt away to look at the scratches on his chest and then his arms. Illya looks down in surprise and almost as if summoned by his sight of them, they start throbbing. They don’t look as bad as he expected and Agent Malikov nods, satisfied.

“Go get cleaned up. Report to the Director in two hours.”

Illya nods at the dismissal and heads for his room. He ignores the heavy weight of Agent Malikov’s eyes on him as he leaves.

\-----

He showers quickly. The water is almost scalding and he only stands there long enough for the water to stop coming off a russet brown before hurrying out. He doesn’t want to run into anyone, knowing he’d have to explain where the tender wounds that were already healing came from. He doesn’t even want to think about it.

His skin is still damp when he puts his underclothes on and crawls into bed. He pulls the covers over his head and reaches under his pillow to pull out his father’s wristwatch. The ticking is loud, abrading against the silence in the sleeping quarters. He wraps it up in a corner of his blanket and tries not to think about what it means when the act doesn’t muffle the sound.

\-----

He walks to the Director’s office stiffly; the lines on his chest are tight and the wound on his forearm throbs with each step. It gets louder the further away from the sleeping quarters he gets and he’s wincing by the time he makes it to the office. The sound of his knocking is lost to the commotion of the camp and he just barely hears the call to enter.

The Director is sitting at his desk and he makes eye contact with Illya as he enters. The man’s eyes are just as steely and hard as when Illya first met him and his heart picks up. He looks away quickly and spots a stranger sitting off to the side with his legs crossed casually. Illya finds the man’s eyes and a sharp smell burns his nose, sets his heart racing, and his legs tense; he wants to run without any obvious reason and he grits his teeth, forcing himself to walk into the room and stand at attention in front of the Director’s desk.

The sounds from outside are almost louder in the office. The poorly insulated windows do nothing to muffle the sounds of his comrades training outside and Illya finds himself watching the Director’s lips closely to parse through what he’s saying.

“I am pleased to see you’re taking so well to the bite, Illya. I was fearful you were going to be a waste of our time.”

Illya wants to rub at his forearm, but stiffens his arms at his side. The Director’s heart thuds slowly, the sound of his desk clock ticks faster. The stranger is tapping a pen against the wooden arms of his chair and it’s almost painfully distracting. Illya isn’t sure if he’s supposed to respond and gives the Director a curt nod.

“Please,” the Director says, smiling even as a sour scent rises from him. “Sit.”

Illya moves to the chair in front of the desk and holds his hands on his lap, taking shallow breaths. The smell turns his stomach and he works on keeping eye contact.

“Tonight you will be transferred away from here. You’ve passed this portion splendidly. Oleg is excited to have you.” The Director gestures to the stranger on the other side of the room and Illya looks over. Oleg doesn’t look excited; he looks actively angry and Illya quickly looks away. The pen keeps tapping and Illya clenches his teeth at the annoyance.

The Director smiles stiffly and stands. Illya follows suit and when he reaches out, Illya grasps his hand in a firm handshake.

“We’re proud of you.”

His heart skips a beat when he speaks and Illya doesn’t doubt that they’ll forget about him before the week is done.

The pen keeps tapping.

\-----

Oleg’s facility is even farther into nowhere than the camp was. It’s a lot larger, buildings built with the same grey cement as the camp, but it’s emptier. There are no other agents like him here for training. Illya can see a few people in the distance, but the only one close enough to smell is Agent Tolstoy, the man who accompanied him to his new home. His scent is different, but no safer than Oleg’s is.

He’s taken to a small room that smells of strong chemicals and Agent Tolstoy leaves him there without a word. Illya stands motionless for a moment, taking shallow breaths and looking around at the plain room. It’s dull in color with a single small window, high near the ceiling.

He unpacks the sack he was allowed to bring with him; his clothes are folded primly and only take up a portion of a drawer. He’s not sure what’s expected of him and he sits cautiously on the bed. The mattress is firm, but the blanket is surprisingly soft and plush. He loses himself in petting the soft cloth; his fingers spread across the blanket and he watches with detachment as if the hand he was staring at wasn’t his. The softness of the blanket is almost hypnotic and he drags his eyes away as the sensation calms him, looking at the narrow walls that seem to get closer the longer he looks at them.

His door captures his attention. It’s partially closed and he can see how the door would blend seamlessly into the wall once latched. There is a small keyhole under the knob and Illya squints at it, heart speeding up in his chest. There is no lock on his side of the door.  

This is a cage.

His fingers tighten in the blanket.

\-----

Life on Oleg’s compound is not what Illya expected. He’s woken every morning before the sun rises, he’s given breakfast, and then he’s sent for training. The physical portions are easy; at the camp it was a requirement that all agents where to be ready to march to the frontlines if need be. Illya excels and his trainers smell sweet with acceptance.

It’s the _other_ practices that are difficult. Twice a day he’s locked in a room with a man who smells dull, almost plain compared to his other trainers. He doesn’t offer his name and Illya is smart enough not to ask; instead, Illya dubs the man Instructor in his mind and shows up to every practice with nervous desperation to prove himself. 

These lessons are much more difficult. He’s not given guidance and the Instructor neither praises nor disciplines him, but every time Illya leaves he feels like he’s failed.

\-----

His first full moon is quickly approaching and his nerves turn his stomach. It’s impossible to forget the ferocity of the werewolf who attacked him and he fears turning into that. He meets with the Instructor more in the week before the full moon. The Instructor is harsh and almost as desperate for Illya to understand as Illya is.

It’s frightening and his body tingles by the time he leaves. He doesn’t know why and he doesn’t want to go back.

\-----

On the day of the full moon he wakes aching. He feels like he did when he first agreed to the program, sore and throbbing and wishing for nothing more than to curl up in a ball until it’s over.

He forces himself up and makes his way to the dining hall for breakfast, despite the nausea rolling his stomach. His training session is cut short when he snaps at one of his trainers, teeth clacking together and lips pulled in a snarl; they hit him with the butt of their rifle and send him to the Instructor immediately. He’s there through lunch and Illya understands the message.

The Instructor looks nervous, excitable. It makes Illya tense and he has trouble focusing. His attention bounces around, he can hear outside of the room and everything is just too loud. He jumps, his chair screeching against the tile as he jerks away when the Instructor slaps the table in front of him with a _crack_.

“ _Kuryakin_! Focus!”

Illya’s eyes are wide and the snarl that erupts from him is involuntary. He flinches in anticipation of a hit, but all the Instructor does is grab his face and hold his chin until Illya opens his eyes.

“You must focus,” the man says again, slowly like Illya was too stupid to follow.

“Focus on _what_?” he growls through clenched teeth. Somewhere he knows he’s stepping into very dangerous territory, but he’s so angry he can’t keep his mouth shut.

“On everything! You do not pay attention and you will never _learn_!”

The Instructor’s eyes flash gold and Illya feels cowed. He averts his gaze as the room is saturated with the Instructor’s anger.

“You are strong but that is not enough,” his voice is softer and the grip on Illya’s face loosens, but he isn’t released.  “I have taught you how to tune your senses. Tonight will be your biggest test, Illya.”

The Instructor rubs his thumb soothingly over one of Illya’s cheeks and Illya closes his eyes at the sensation.

“This is normal,” the Instructor promises, voice low and thumb still moving. “You are young, but they will not keep you if you cannot learn.”

Illya opens his eyes and sees that the Instructor’s eyes are no longer supernaturally gold, but familiar dark brown again.

“I will,” Illya promises, subdued. The Instructor’s eyes dart over Illya’s face and he nods once before letting him go.

\-----

He’s locked in his room two hours before sundown.

He doesn’t need to look at the watch on his wrist to know this; he can feel the moon’s pull even from this early and instinctively he knows how long it will take for her to rise.

He paces the cramped space anxiously, the urge to run burning in his legs as the sun gets closer to the horizon. He’s watching the sun cast bright orange marks across his ceiling when a knock on his door makes him jump. He hadn’t realized his heart had slowed, watching the sun marks on his ceiling, until it speeds up again.

“Agent Kuryakin, can you hear me?” The Instructor’s voice is as clear as if he were standing in the room with him. Illya rushes to the door and presses himself against it.

“Yes,” he responds, pressing his face to the almost unseen crack where the door meets the wall. He breathes in and can smell the Instructor’s easy scent; it reminds him of dirt and rain if he closes his eyes. There’s movement on the other side of the door and Illya takes in another deep breath. There are other agents there. Their guns rattle softly as they shift, their sharp scent reaches Illya’s nose and he realizes suddenly that the smell is distinctly human.

“Listen to me,” the Instructor says, lowering his voice to an almost whisper. Illya strains his ears to listen. “Take off your watch, take off your sheets. Put them in your dresser.”

Illya’s eyes fall to his watch and the ticking is loud in his ears; he can feel the mechanisms inside click on his wrist. He doesn’t want to; he never does anything without his father’s watch and he just wants to wrap himself in the soft blanket until the night is over.

Almost as if he’s able to hear Illya’s hesitation, the Instructor says his name once in warning and Illya gets moving. He strips his bed and wraps his watch up in the soft blanket before folding everything compactly to rest next to his clothes.

“Okay,” Illya says to the empty room before moving back to the door and repeating himself.

“Good, now break off the handle.”

“Sir?” Illya’s heart races at the thought of deliberately breaking something, not knowing what kind of trouble that would even cause.

“Trust me, Kuryakin.”

Illya nods and moves away back to the dresser. He takes a deep breath, hand wrapped around the handle of the drawer. He swallows thickly before twisting his wrist and snapping the handle off with ease.

“Good,” the Instructor says. Illya feels warm and looks down at the handle in his hands, positive the Instructor heard the sound of wood snapping through the door.

“Now what?” he asks, standing shakily and moving to the door. His hand is still fisted around the broken handle; he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Now you focus, and you wait for it to pass.”

Illya nods despite knowing the Instructor cannot see him and leans against the door heavily. As the sun sinks below the horizon, Illya’s knees slowly give out and he slides to the floor. He curls, pressing his hands to his stomach as pain radiates from every inch of his body. He pants against the pain and grabs at his shirt, pulling as if that will relieve the unbearable pressure in his body.

It feels like the pain laces through his body for hours before he convulses, his head cracking against the door and a scream erupting from his lips. His fingers are hot and he unclenches them to splay them across the cool tile, nearly choking in surprise when he sees the claws emerging from his fingernails.  

He screams, rolls to his knees so he can rest in the fetal position and fists his _clawed_ hands in his hair, pressing his mouth into the top of his knees until he tastes blood. He rears back and sees four holes in his slacks and blood staining them. He keens, tilting his head back in a screaming howl.

When he finishes, he’s exhausted and he leans against the wall panting, but painless. Illya can’t hear anything but his own heavy breathing for a moment and then the world quiets and he can hear his heart beat, he can hear the Instructor’s heartbeat and the agents standing around in the hall. He can hear them as clearly as if it were being broadcasted across the radio and his nails dig at the door.

“Let me out,” he pleads. The words slur and run together as his lips and tongue clumsily avoid the fangs protruding from his lips.

“I can’t do that,” the Instructor says softly. Illya’s lips pull back in a snarl and he pulls his hand away from the door, taking a chunk of wood with him. He slaps at the door before curling his hands into claws and slashing at it.

“Let me out!”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and starts pacing in a tight circle. He howls to drown out the voice of the Instructor. Rage fills him and he throws himself at the door. The movement in the hall spurs him on and he digs until he reaches the metal that reinforces his door. He has no doubt all his walls are reinforced but that doesn’t stop him from looking.

He wants out. He needs out. The urge to run and hunt and fight is too strong to ignore. This cage is too small and there isn’t enough to destroy. He turns his attention to his bed, sinks his claws in the soft fabric and rips. The feeling of soft material giving way under his hands soothes him; he rips until there’s nothing left but spring and wood, feathers surrounding him.

He huffs and then growls when his breath disturbs the feathers closest to him. He swats at it angrily and then his eyes fall on his dresser. With renewed ferocity, Illya jumps on top of the wooden dresser and claws at the wood. Deep gouges score the wood and it’s not enough. He grabs one of the handles and yanks the drawer free to hurdle it at the door. The drawer shatters, the splintering wood loud enough to make him howl in retaliation.

He continues on that way. Smash, howl. Smash, howl. Then he gets to the drawer with no handle and he claws at it, clumsily trying to grasp the edges to pull the drawer out. He can’t think clearly enough to figure it out and he gives up after a few failed tries. The rest of his night is spend thoroughly destroying the dresser drawers and howling over the wolf in the hallway when he tries to speak.

\-----

When Illya wakes, the sun is high in the sky. He looks around at the feathers and splintered wood in a confused daze before he realizes what happened. His heart starts racing and his hands tremble at his side. He can’t imagine that kind of punishment that will be awaiting him for this and tears of fear well in his eyes. The wood is unsalvageable and he walks to his bed with his heart in his throat to inspect the damage.

The fabric’s been shredded; ripped off in pieces and gutted. A whine escapes his lips and he clamps his mouth shut. His fingers are bruised and sore, but he presses them to his face regardless as a sob lodges itself in his throat.

He sinks to his knees as his entire body trembles; he can’t drag his eyes away from what he’s done. He doesn’t even look up when he hears his door open and someone walk in, wood cracking and grinding under their heel. His breaths are quick and shallow and he smells the Instructor, his earthy scent filling the room.

Illya can see him in his peripherals. The instructor walks to his destroyed dresser and kneels to pry open the bottom drawer with his fingers. The door slides open and he gathers the wad of blanket into his arms before walking over to Illya.

Illya flinches when the blanket is unrolled and wrapped around his shoulders. The Instructor doesn’t pause and he reaches for Illya’s hand, pulling his arm away from his chest and carefully strapping the watch around his wrist.

“You did well,” the Instructor says, stroking his thumb over Illya’s wrist. Illya’s breath catches in his throat at the lie and he blinks hard against the renewed onslaught of tears.

“You did,” he insists, reaching to run a hand through Illya’s hair. “It was your first full moon, pup, and you are still standing. You have done better than expected. Even Oleg wishes to speak with you.”

Illya looks up at the term of endearment and sees nothing but pride in the Instructor’s eyes. He strains his ears to hear if they’re being watched and once hearing no one else, he leans forward and presses his head in the other wolf’s neck. The Instructor’s arms are hesitant and awkward around him, but Illya feels as comfortable as if he were hugging his own mother.

\-----

Illya tries harder than he ever has before to perfect whatever it is the Instructor is honing in him. He needs to make the wolf proud again and he will do anything to make that possible. Oleg wishes to meet with him more; once a week he’s summoned to their leader’s office for a meeting. Illya knows it’s a test, but he doesn’t know if he’s passing.

His second moon passes similarly to the first, only this time there was no bed to destroy. The third, fourth, fifth moon go by and Illya knows Oleg is getting frustrated and impatient.

The sixth moon comes and goes and when Illya wakes up in the morning, the Instructor is gone.

Oleg calls him into his office and Illya is more confused than frightened. He’s been to Oleg’s office so many times his scent is starting to leave an impression there, but when he enters the room the hairs on his arms rise at the scent of overwhelming anger. Illya falters in the doorway, only moving forward when Oleg gestures impatiently for him.

“Sir,” he greets hesitantly. Oleg’s dark eyes are cold and Illya wants to bow his head and look away.

“I’m sure you’ve already noticed Citizen Bronislav has been excused,” Oleg pauses, watching Illya closely as he frowns in confusion. He is not familiar with anyone by that name and he looks away from Oleg to try and think.

And then he understands.

“My instructor?” he asks slowly and Oleg smiles widely at the recognition.

“Indeed. It has become increasingly clear that he has nothing left to teach you as you are not improving, and he has been excused.”

Excused. _Excused_.

Oleg is watching him closely and Illya tries to slow his rapidly beating heart. His hands tremble at his side and he fists them to keep them steady.

“Sir, I don’t think–“

“It is irrelevant what you think.” Oleg answers over him. There’s a smugness about him, an air of amusement that burns Illya’s nose and makes his body prickle.

“I need him,” Illya rushes to say and Oleg’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“You were spending too much time with the _Lycan_ and not learning nearly enough.”

Illya flinches as the word was spat at him. He has never heard the word before, but he had no doubts it’s not good. Oleg stands, crossing his arms and straightening his back. He’s posturing, like the Instructor, like _Bronislav_ used to, but Oleg feels greater, more dangerous in a way Bronislav never was.

“From now on you will be reporting to only me, am I understood?” Illya’s heart pounds as Oleg’s voice carries heavily across the room. He nods, swallowing heavily. Oleg continues to stare at him deeply before nodding and dismissing Illya.

Illya all but scurries out of the room; he feels sick. He doesn’t know what just happened but he knows he’ll never see Bronislav again.

\-----

Illya doesn’t realize an Alpha bond is forming with Oleg until it has already happened. There’s a heavy weight in his chest that lets him know almost instinctively when Oleg wants him and how the man is feeling. Spending every day with the man had made the bond a gradual sneaking thing and Illya only recognizes it after remembering a brief mentioning of the potential for bonds from Bronislav.

Oleg is a cruel man and a careless Alpha, but Illya cannot stop striving to earn acceptance from him. It’s rarely given, but when Illya earns back a bed after a successful training session, he sleeps deeply and it feels like pride.

\-----

Full moons are still a struggle. He can’t seem to get a grasp on control, but as each month passes he is able to think a little more clearly each moon.

Anger and hatred burn deep in his gut and he can’t look himself in the mirror anymore. If only he had been smarter and a faster learner, Bronislav would still be here and Illya wouldn’t be alone.

\-----

He learns he can’t take this unending hatred out on himself. Any wounds he inflicts in punishment vanish within hours and the unmarred skin taunts him. However, he can take his hatred out on other things, and he has so much hate he feels like nothing in the world will make him feel whole again.

His blankets become a source of mockery, his watch a reminder of his foolish attempt to be better than his father, and the moon…

The moon acts as a beacon for all the evil in him to come to the surface.

\-----

Illya tries not to think about his mother often. All his memories of her are fond and he doesn’t want this evil darkness inside him to taint that.

But sometimes the ache of missing her becomes unbearable and he wraps his watch, around and around and around, in his blanket and pretends the faint ticking is her heart beat. He closes his eyes and tries to remember what she smells like. He can’t truly remember.

He wonders if he’d even be able to recognize her in this predator’s body.

\-----

Full moons are spent pacing around his room, hands fisted so tight his claws dig into his flesh. Anger washes over him, flooding his insides until he is nothing but red.

He is fourteen when he sits in his locked room while the moon casts white light through the tiny window; his legs are crossed and his eyes are closed as his hands tremble in barely suppressed anger, but his nails are human when they cut into his palm.

When Oleg meets with him the following morning he’s tired, but Oleg’s voice is proud and Illya’s chest warms at the knowledge he made his Alpha happy.

\-----

More wolves join him at the facility. They’re all older than he is, but they are _new_. He can smell their fear as it saturates the yard, the dining hall, the sleeping quarters that house their cages. A small part of him wishes he were able to help them like Bronislav helped him; a larger part finds itself annoyed at their howls.

\-----

The Second World War is over before he sees the battlefront.

The tensions between nations never really die down before the Cold War begins and Illya never dreamed that his program would be terminated.

The wolves that were able to master their animalistic side were kept for something greater; the one’s who couldn’t were sent away. Illya never asked where.

\-----

Illya is Oleg’s favorite; his leash is short and Oleg knows just how to yank it to get a desired reaction. It’s the imagined privilege of being Oleg’s favorite that gets him widely disliked by the other wolves. 

He tells himself he doesn’t care that the dining hall is territory he’s not welcomed in; he doesn’t need to have pack mates. He started alone, he can continue alone.

\-----

He’s sent out on missions the winter after his sixteenth birthday. There are two beta handlers in charge of a four-manned team. Illya’s partner is Agent Yurlov, a wolf older in age but not in experience. The two bristle against each other immediately, neither sure exactly who has the upper hand. Illya had been turned first, but Yurlov was older.  

The friction between them almost jeopardizes the mission and Illya avoids loses an eye by sheer luck; a crowbar to the head misses his eye by mere inches and breaks the skin beside his right eye. Yurlov finishes the mission while Illya provides an easy target and they both manage to make it back to headquarters alive.

When they get back to the facility, Illya dreads the immediate request Oleg sends for him. He doesn’t have time to clean up before he meets Oleg and shows up at the man’s office bloody and bruised with fresh stitches adorning his face.

Oleg doesn’t have to speak for Illya to know he’s in trouble; the man’s anger would be palpable to even a human.

“Am I to understand, Agent Kuryakin, that a school yard squabble caused you to fail in your mission?” Oleg’s words are like daggers and Illya flinches, swallowing hard.

He wants to argue and explain that it wasn’t just him, but he knows Oleg doesn’t care.

“Yes, sir.”

Oleg sighs heavily out his nose and Illya shifts in his seat, wincing when the movement pulled on sore muscles.

“Do you know what happens to those who are useless, Illya?”

The use of his first name sets him on edge and Illya shakes his head meekly, unable to meet Oleg’s gaze. Oleg stands, his Alpha presence overwhelming, and walks around his desk to tower over Illya, who hunches in his seat.

“Generation Y,” Oleg starts, referring to the wolves who were disposed of after the war ended. “Bronislav. Your father.”

Illya’s jaw ticks and his hands tremble. He opens and closes them deliberately in attempt to give himself something to focus on as Oleg leans in closer. He grabs Illya’s face and forces him to make eye contact.

“They are sent away, Agent Kuryakin. Is that what you wish to happen? There is plenty of space for you, for _your mother_ , to join your father in Siberia.”

Claws bite into his palm and his mouth prickles as his fangs threaten to lower.

“No, sir,” he says, ears burning with embarrassment when his voice cracks. Oleg’s face twists into a snarl and his fingers tighten into Illya’s cheeks. In a motion Illya didn’t anticipate, Oleg jerks his face forward and slashes at the tender stitches with his spare hand.

He whimpers and his fangs descend as he jerks back as far as Oleg will allow. Oleg’s hand follows him, digging deep into the cut below his eye. A howl erupts from his chest and Oleg pushes him away. He sinks to the floor, whimpers and tears coming unstoppable.

“Be sure you remember your place, Agent Kuryakin. You are never so invaluable that you can’t be replaced.”

\-----

The wound never heals properly; it remains tender and swollen for days. It takes weeks to before he can leave it unbandaged and it leaves behind a dark V, sideways and pointed towards his eye like an arrow.

Stories of Illya fly around the facility; they say he is violent and uncooperative. His comrades whisper about him as if he can’t hear them and he walks amongst them while words cut into him. The wolves look at his height and the scar adorning his face and call him feral. They talk of how he was never fully human to begin with.

Their words make his body coil tight with rage and as he looks down at his trembling hands, he finds it’s hard not to agree.

\-----

For a little while, the painful reminder of his mission failure keeps him in check. He lets the wolves and other agents push him, ignoring their baiting and focusing only on completing the mission. Oleg doesn’t acknowledge him after his mission with Yurlov and going so long with neither praise nor discipline from his Alpha makes him feel jittery.

Eventually the taunts get to be too much; he had never been taught how to harness his anger and he fights.

The world goes quiet when he fights, body charged with too much energy. His body was built to accommodate the wolf and anyone who comes across him learns the hard way that he may be silent, but he is no pushover.

This finally gets Oleg’s attention and despite the churning guilt Illya gets from disappointing him, his body settles as his Alpha yells at him. It’s a temporary fix, but it’s better than nothing. His hands shake when he leaves Oleg and sometimes the only way to breathe is to sink his claws into something and destroy it.

\-----

He’s an adult before he’s trusted enough to go on solo missions. His handler is another beta and he tries not to feel offended that he’s being babysat so intensely, but he leaves Illya alone to make his own decisions and Illya excels.

This, he thinks, is what he was born to do. It’s what he’s been trained to do.

For the first time since he was fourteen Illya knows he’s making Oleg proud and the confidence he gets from that knowledge makes him bolder, braver, than before. He’s trusted on these solo missions and when Oleg nods at his reports without a word the acceptance makes him feel weightless. It’s an intoxicating feeling and a small part of him is fearful to have it taken away.

\-----

Illya is in Korea when he comes across an illegal fighting ring.

He knows he should shut it down; he required to keep the public in check, but when he walks follows the scent of blood into an arena his head spins at the energy of the room. Pain is sharp in the air, but so is victorious pride and Illya inhales deeply, heart racing. It’s mostly wolves, there is an underlying scent of human but Illya imagines they are here as spectators; only a human with a death wish would go against a wolf in a fight like this.

With wide eyes he looks around for someone in charge. His fingers tap an unsteady beat against his thigh and he clenches them when he sees a woman sitting by the front wall, a cashbox resting safely in front of her.

“How much?” he asks clumsily. He hadn’t been given much time to learn the language or mask his accent and it gives the locals more reason to avoid him. That’s not necessarily detrimental in this mission, but Illya knows it could prove fatal in others.

The woman eyes him nervously before looking around him. Illya resists the urge to follow her gaze.

“I am not causing trouble. I just wish to fight.”

She licks her lips and swallows hard before nodding. She speaks quickly, telling him the price and the rules, and Illya struggles to keep up. He thinks he understood the important parts and rather than ask her to repeat herself, an action completely foreign on him, he nods and gives her the money wordlessly.

She smiles as she tucks the payment into the cashbox and her eyes flash when she wishes him good luck.

Fighting helps more than Illya ever imagined it could. It eases the blood thirst that courses through him, gives him a clarity he is rare to find outside of a ring.

Some nights he thinks his comrades are right when they whisper about him being more animal than man.

It has been years since the moon has had any hold on him. Neither out of fear or guidance does he look up to her and he stays locked away inside whenever the sun falls, regardless of the moon’s phase. He fights off the urge to shift and answer her calling during the full moon and surely that proves he’s more human; he may be cursed, but he has some semblance of control.

\-----

Fighting in rings may have made him a better agent, but it did nothing to help with his relationships between his comrades. It’s obvious they don’t trust him, or like him. The pack bonds they share with one another are lost him and he tries not to mourn the loss of something he never had. It’s hard, but he convinces himself his Alpha’s presence is enough.

Illya knows that’s not good enough for Oleg; he can feel the Alpha’s displeasure at his bondless beta, but Illya is an expert at pushing away the guilt failing Oleg brings and if he enters into fights more often, is recklessly violent, that’s his problem.

Illya does his job and he does it well. Oleg has no reason to complain about his solidarity as long as Illya stays at the top. There are no room for errors here.

\-----

“I have a proposition for you,” Oleg says. He doesn’t bother to look up from the files he’s reading and Illya straightens in his seat. A proposition implies there’s a choice; Illya knows there is never a choice, but he appreciates the façade.

Oleg lets him sit in silence while he finishes reading the paper in his hands and then signs the bottom in one scrawling motion.

“We are at a stalemate with the Americans. I have received orders that we will be moving forward with a goal to make our soldiers all but invisible to the Americans and to their Lycans.”

Illya’s eyebrow twitches, but he nods in agreement. Oleg twists his lips up in a smile that looks more like a grimace and continues, “I’m pleased to give you the opportunity to take part in this mission.”

There is no indication of pleasure in the air, but Illya is not surprised. Oleg has never tried to mask his lies from Illya and in a way, Illya is appreciative of that.

“Sir, it would be an honor.”

Not for the first time, he’s relieved Oleg cannot hear his heart racing.

\-----

He is the first, and only, to be given the experimental drug to mask his scent. It’s dangerous, of course it is, but he was the first to survive the bite and they have high hopes he will survive this.

It’s painful. The first drug sits in his stomach like acid and he feels like he’s being melted from the inside.  It does nothing to hide his scent and when he goes to ambush an unsuspecting pack mate, he’s quickly neutralized.

The second and third are much of the same and Illya has a fleeting thought that maybe they are trying to kill him. He pushes that thought away, however, when he comes to consciousness and the doctor seems genuinely distressed about the drugs failures.

They manage to target his senses. One drug dulls him so much he thinks the world has disappeared; another heightens everything so that even his clothes were painfully abrasive on his skin.

It takes nearly two years of being poisoned before they find one that works. It takes six months of tweaking until it’s perfected and when Illya sneaks up on his comrades, he’s neither in pain or discovered as he sneaks up on his comrades until it is too late. He’s become a ghost and Oleg is happy when the drug is distributed to a selection of other strong wolves.

It works flawlessly on them and Illya tries to pretend the heavy feeling in his chest is pride.

It takes months for the twitch he developed to stop.

\-----

“Kuryakin,” a voice calls out and Illya looks up from his plate. He’s in the dining hall with an arm snaked carefully around his tray. A wolf across the room gestures for him and Illya scoops another mouthful before standing reluctantly; he knows the meal will be gone or inedible when he gets back.

“Oleg wants you.” The wolf’s voice is flat and Illya can smell the bitter jealousy coming off him. They are all so jealous of Illya being Oleg’s right hand and he wonders if they would still want his position if they knew everything that came with it. Illya nods his thanks without comment and leaves, careful to keep the situation from escalating.

He goes directly to Oleg’s office, stomach tightening as he wonders what he is to do, or what he has done wrong. In a moment of nerves, he cups his hand around the watch on his wrist. It’s been fixed tens of times and fits comfortably on his wrist now; he wears it so often it’s practically a part of him. He feels more naked without the watch than without actual clothes. He presses the face into his into his palm to allow the faint ticking to calm him to his bones.

Taking a steadying breath, he knocks on Oleg’s door and is instantly beckoned in. Illya steps in and closes the door behind him, then pauses when he sees Oleg stand and walk towards him.

“Come on. I have a mission briefing for you.”

Illya nods once and follows just one step behind Oleg. He’s lead upstairs to the projections room, where a human agent is shuffling around in a stack of films. Oleg ignores the man and Illya follows suit. He seats himself in the theater-style seating and Oleg sits behind him.

“I have been in contact with an American agent,” Oleg says lowly. Illya looks over his shoulder, shifting so his legs are at an angle to give himself a little more leg room. Oleg is leaning back in his seat, looking so causal he might’ve just told Illya about the weather.

“CIA to be exact. They seem to be watching a mark that could prove dangerous. We believe they will try to extract her.” Illya frowns, nodding as he looks away. Oleg gestures over his shoulder and the agent in the back dims the lights. The projector flickers on, casting the room in a dim yellow glow.

“If they send anyone, it will be Napoleon Solo.” A picture comes up on the wall. It’s a handsome man, tall and broad shouldered. Illya looks over his face, memorizing the features.

“What is he?”

“He is a Lycan, and very dangerous. He fought in the war and has since then become a high profile thief; he’s wanted all over Europe. Four countries had developed specific tasks forces to bring him in.” Oleg pauses to let the newspaper clippings and censored photos flip through on the screen. The man doesn’t look older than Illya himself and he frowns at how young Solo’s war photos look, how baby faced he is on his enlistment form.

“It was luck that the CIA caught him. They offered him a deal, and has become their best agent. If they send anyone for the girl, it will be him.”

Oleg leans forward and gestures with two fingers. Illya feels the seriousness in the room spike and tension knots his stomach.

“Do not let him escape with the girl.”

\-------

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I really hope this didn't disappoint! And I hope it wasn't too confusing! I will be putting up a timeline of sorts for this series so it can be referenced and maybe it'll make it easier to understand. Hope you enjoyed :) If anyone has a better idea for the title or for the series name, feel free to suggest it !! 
> 
> [find me on tumblr ](http://www.screamingarrows.tumblr.com)


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